Very few things make me as happy as seeing the dogs come in and out of our apartment building. When the elevator doors open up and a golden retriever or a pug steps out, I immediately rip off my gloves to pet the dog and let out an involuntary "oh." Whether the dog is a hyperactive Chihuahua that jumps all over my calves or a mammoth St. Bernard that plows his head into my stomach, I adore them all. By in large, the dogs in the building are small yippy things whose owners dress them in booties, Burberry sweaters, or Coach jackets. Thankfully, these dogs have no idea of how ridiculous they look.
One of the few times that I talk to my neighbors is when they have a dog in the elevator with them. I learned that Joe from Memphis feels guilty about keeping a Great Dane in the city because the dog is too big for the apartment. A woman from floor 25 dresses her terrier in booties because the ground is too cold for his sensitive paws. A man from apartment 1901 invited me to his party because his Lab liked me so much that "I had to be a fun person." Fred, the one-year-old Jack Russell terrier, matches me with his bright red coat. And a woman from the 33rd floor will never forgive me for "accidentally" getting her sheep dog riled up after his walk by playing on the elevator.
Nothing quite compares to coming home exhausted from an internship and seeing a new dog and feeling completely refreshed. It's probably the only reason that I can drag myself to the kitchen and make dinner.
